Handle With Care and Other Stories

by Ann MacLaren

  Handle

  With

  Care

  and other stories

  Ann MacLaren

  Copyright © 2018 Ann MacLaren

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1789012 743

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Iain

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Burnt Umber

  Pat the Pig

  Handle With Care

  At the Crossroads

  For Better, For Worse

  Moving On

  Ball Bearings

  In Concert

  Old Annie

  Suburban Myth

  Nice Work

  Early One Morning

  Trout

  You’ve Got to Laugh

  Hotel Riposo

  Nevertheless

  The Kiss

  Alice Goes Shopping

  Therapy

  Neighbours

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to Mary Edward for proofreading this work, to Kirsty MacLaren for her artwork, to the team at Matador for their help and guidance through all stages of the publication process, and to Strathkelvin Writers’ Group for their support and encouragement.

  Burnt Umber

  Mariella was a worrier. She was the sort of woman who never went to the toilet on a train because she worried that the automatic door would automatically open and she’d be caught with her knickers down. The sort who always turned up early – in case she was late.

  Mostly, she worried that the worst might happen – and not for nothing, she would point out, because very often the worst did indeed happen: she had failed the exams that would have taken her to University, she hadn’t managed to get pregnant, her husband had become tired of her and left her for a younger model, she had ended up an unhappy and lonely old woman.

  Mariella was actually only forty five, but she considered herself old. And while she may have felt lonely at times she wasn’t always alone: she very often had a man about the house – although it’s true to say that none of these men ever made her happy. Because Mariella was drawn to an unsuitable man like a wasp to a rotten apple. And this was something else she worried about.

  There was Tony, who was always borrowing money but never paid it back; Ken, whose wife didn’t understand him; and Rick, who came from Alabama on business trips and used her home like a hotel. None of the three was a serious contender for a long-term relationship.

  Her friend Connie took her to task about this:

  “Why do you let yourself be so put upon? Get shot of the lot of them and see if you can’t find yourself a decent man, somebody who can take care of you and not lean on you the way they all do. There’s lots of men out there, you just have to know where to look. What about a dating website?”

  Connie could fit more words into ten seconds than anyone else she knew.

  “I’ve tried a dating website. I didn’t like it.”

  “You didn’t like it because you weren’t prepared to give it a proper go, ’cos when you were sent those four names and four photos, you didn’t believe what you saw in front of your nose. You were convinced they’d be con men or mass murderers.”

  It was true. But she’d felt she had reason to be sceptical. Each reply was computer generated; there was nobody there, no real person inside that screen smiling out at her, making her feel safe and secure. Mariella didn’t trust computers.

  Connie rattled on like a train.

  “Join a club then, that’s a great way of meeting people, a walking club maybe. Or volunteer in a charity shop, they’re crying out for help. Or get a part-time job, in a café. No, wait, I’ve got a great idea, what about a night class? A lot of men go to classes and they’ll at least have a modicum of intelligence. What would you like to learn, a language? Spanish? Greek? Or what about Art, you were always good at that at school. You might do Life Drawing classes, naked men, just imagine…”

  “I don’t like walking; you get all sweaty and if it rains it’s miserable. And what would be the point of learning a language? I don’t go anywhere. You know I’m terrified of flying, and I don’t like ferries either. Too much water. And before you say it, I’m not going through that tunnel.” Mariella shivered at the thought.

  “You’re impossible, I’m off home,” said an unusually abrupt Connie. And she was gone – which was a pity because she didn’t hear Mariella say:

  “It’s been a long time since I did any painting; I’d probably be rubbish at it, but I’d quite like to give it a try.”

  Mariella had liked painting as a child; but more than that, she’d loved the accessories that went with it. In her bedroom she’d had a deep drawer full of various colouring books and pads of paper, all neatly stacked to one side in their different sizes. At the other side her large crayon collection was kept, separated by colour, in cigar boxes, which she would check regularly in case her brother had been borrowing them and a red had become mixed up with the greens. She’d even had a few pieces of charcoal wrapped in paper and hidden at the back of the drawer, but she hadn’t used these much because they were a bit messy. On top of the boxes sat her prized possession: a tin of watercolours handed down from an aunt, with scenes from Alice in Wonderland on the top and inside a selection of named rectangles of colour. It had never been used, and Mariella hadn’t wanted to spoil it by using it either, but she had spent hours just looking at it, learning and falling in love with the names of the colours – Prussian blue, ultramarine, vermilion, yellow ochre, and her most favourite, burnt umber. She would roll the name around her tongue and think of her mother’s ginger cake.

  Connie was right: at school Mariella had been good at drawing and painting. One of her teachers had suggested to her that she might want to try for Glasgow School of Art, but she wasn’t sure she’d like living there. She’d heard stories. Anyway, her mother had other ideas.

  “You don’t want to waste your time on all that arty-farty stuff, Mariella. It’s not a real career. You want to be a doctor, or a lawyer – something that’ll make you a bit of money.”

  Later, when it was clear Mariella was lacking in the academic department, her mother had other suggestions.

  “You could be a hairdresser, that’s a bit of an art, isn’t it?”

  Marie
lla had felt sick at the thought of having to wash greasy heads, and pull swirls of hair out of plug holes. Eventually she found an easy and undemanding job as receptionist in an insurance office.

  When Connie phoned to apologise for her rapid exit the night before, Mariella had news for her.

  “I’ve decided to sign up for an Art class. A beginner’s class, I don’t want anything too difficult. I’ll send away for a brochure and see what the university has to offer.”

  “You don’t want to bother with all that palaver,” said Connie, who was clearly sitting in front of her computer because Mariella could hear her tapping at the keyboard. “Here it is, I’ve got it – Creative Drawing and Painting Beginners, a practical approach to drawing and painting for people with no previous experience. Through a variety of demonstrations and lessons you will develop your practical skills, using a range of materials and different painting techniques. Ten sessions, materials not provided. Tutor, Frankie Amadei, mmm… I like the sound of him, must be Italian. I’ll book you onto the course, I’m online anyway. I’ll book myself on too, I’m not doing anything else on Thursday evenings.”

  Mariella had a wonderful dream that night. She was in an Art studio, alone except for a naked model – a man about her own age, bronzed, muscled, stretched out in an artistic pose on a piece of white silk cloth on a raised podium in the centre of the room. Around the studio were an assortment of easels holding large canvases, and on these Mariella had drawn or painted her model, or parts of him, from various angles and in different media. One easel held a pencil drawing of his feet, another a charcoal of his hands, a third a pastel of his head and shoulders, a fourth a study of his back and bottom in oils. They were all perfectly executed. She looked around for the watercolours to begin her final painting, a full frontal view of her model, and found a small box of paints containing rectangles of colour. She dipped her brush in water and began. In a very short time she had completed her work, except for the groin area which she had been avoiding looking at. Now she took a deep breath and stared at the penis for longer than was perhaps necessary; it was quite small, but lay against the white thigh at a jaunty angle. She wondered which colour would portray it most faithfully; but when she turned to survey her box of paints there was only one rectangle left. Burnt umber.

  “Unusual, but original,” said the tutor-model as he came behind her to survey the finished picture. “I love the burnt umber. Makes it stand out.” He held her shoulders in his strong hands and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “It’s my favourite colour.”

  Mariella woke panting and sweating. She lay there, breathless, trying to hold on to the intense pleasure of her dream, but it became fuzzy and began to dissipate along with the details of her art work, the tutor, the naked body.

  Room 601 the letter said. Mariella checked it in the lift going up to the sixth floor, then again when she was standing outside the door. The room was in darkness; there was no-one around. Still, it was only 6.45 and the class wasn’t due to start till 7.30. Best to be early. People would arrive soon. Mariella waited. And waited.

  When nobody had arrived by 7 she began to worry. The tutor ought to have been here by now to set up. Perhaps the venue had been changed to a different room; she should have checked with the janitor when she came in. She’d better do that now. She wondered if she should walk down the stairs, checking the rooms on each floor, but decided that would take too long.

  Mariella stepped back into the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. The door started to close, stalled, opened again then closed properly, and in those few seconds she heard the lift beside hers open its doors, spilling out a chattering of voices and laughter. She was sure she could hear Connie’s silly high-pitched giggle in there somewhere.

  “Damn” she said loudly and pressed the floor 6 button. Too late. The lift didn’t stop. She pressed 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1, but the lift continued descending. When it reached the ground floor it stopped, but the doors didn’t open. Mariella pressed 6 again and the lift began to move up through all the floors, stopping at 5. The doors stayed shut. Exasperated, she pressed 6 again, but the lift began to descend. She jabbed at all the numbers again in quick succession, including the Open and Close buttons. The lift slowed, then jerked to a halt. The doors remained closed. There was no number on the display. Anxiously she hit the doors open button again. Nothing.

  Mariella was very worried. She punched the alarm button, expecting to hear a siren and reassuring voices outside the lift; but there was only silence. In a panic she hit it again, and again, and again… till suddenly a crackly voice emerged from the speaker:

  “Okay, okay, keep your hair on. I was in the loo. When a man’s gotta go, he’s gotta…”

  “I’m stuck in a lift,” shouted Mariella.

  “Yes, I know that. Obviously.”

  “Just get me out of here. Please!”

  “Just calm yourself down, Missus. Take big deep breaths. I’ll get somebody to you as soon as I can. Could you just give me the long number that’s up at the top of the control panel. I need to cross reference. Take your time now, we want to get it right.”

  “Never mind the bloody number! Just get me out of here. I’m in the first lift just past your office…”

  “Eh, no. My office doesn’t have a lift. And you’re in a building in… let’s see… Edinburgh. At least, that’s what it says on the screen here. I’m in an industrial estate just outside Dundee.”

  “Are you not the janitor? Where’s the janitor? Can he not open the door? Pleeeease!”

  “Doesn’t have the wherewithal,” the voice said. “But don’t you worry, I’ve got a man on his way. Just you give me that number so that I can do my cross check, then you can relax. We’ll have you out of there in no time.”

  Mariella looked for the number.

  “It’s 32675,” she said, in a shaky voice.

  “No, that can’t be it. It should have six digits. And there should be two letters in front of it. Are you looking in the right place?”

  “I’m looking at the control panel!” She shouted. “It’s right there at the top! Above all the numbers!”

  “No, no, not that control panel. The one up high that controls the electrics.”

  Mariella stood on tiptoe and tried to read the number.

  “It’s too high,” she wailed.

  “Try jumping up to them. You can give me the numbers one at a time, that’s only eight jumps.”

  Mariella started to bounce. The floor shook worryingly, but she persevered.

  “G… G… 2… 1… 4… 4… 1… 2.”

  “Great. You sound a bit out of puff. Why don’t you sit down and have a wee rest, get your breath back. The engineer’ll be there in a jiffy. Will we sing something to pass the time? Do you like Abba?”

  They were on Dancing Queen when the engineer prised open the doors between the ground and basement. A small crowd of men and women – headed by Connie and her new friend Tutor Frankie, who looked about as Italian as a haggis supper – watched the operation, giving advice and assistance. The janitor managed to lower down a chair for her to stand on, and the men pulled her to safety. Not that she had been in any real danger, they told her.

  Mariella wasn’t convinced. She could – as Connie was now busy telling her – have run out of air in that confined space, or had a heart attack. She’d never thought she’d be so pleased to hear Connie’s voice.

  “Oh look, Frankie, she’s shaking. Let’s take her down to the pub for a drink. I’d need a drink if I’d been stuck in the lift. And look at your tights Mariella, they’re all ripped. They could have been more careful pulling you out. Lucky for you Frankie’s cancelled the class. No heating. He says it wouldn’t be fair on the model.”

  The large glass of wine calmed her a bit, but she refused a second; she didn’t want to play gooseberry for the rest of the evening. She headed home to a warm bath and a wor
ry.

  Mariella had just tucked herself into bed when her mobile rang. It would be Ken needing to talk, she thought, as she felt for the phone on her bedside table, or Tony looking for a loan, or Rick, off a late flight and wanting a warm bed. Or even, she decided, as she hurled the phone across the room, a gloating Connie. When it stopped ringing she settled herself under the covers again, took some deep calming breaths, and conjured up – as she had done every night since that heavenly dream – the vision of a bronzed, young man against a white silk background; she remembered the clasped hands, the curve of his feet, the ripple of his white thigh, and she began to relax into the now familiar feelings of peace, happiness and exquisite pleasure.

  Mariella drifted off to sleep, her mind focused on burnt umber.

  Pat the Pig

  Trish gave the soft doughy roll an affectionate squeeze as she sliced through it with the bread knife, then she placed four thick slices of Mars Bar on top of one half, covered the other half with chocolate spread, joined the two, and with a sigh of contentment sank her teeth into it.

  The diet was broken. She knew that shame and remorse lay not very far ahead, but what the hell, she might as well enjoy the moment. So she managed to savour every mouthful of the roll, polish off the leftovers of the Mars Bar and lick the chocolate-smeared knife before the pangs of guilt crept up on her.

  Hunger pangs and no guilt or guilt pangs and no hunger, thought Trish. I can’t win.

  She had always been overweight. Fat Pat, she had been called on her first day at school. And the name, like the fat, had stuck. She was still Fat Pat when she left twelve years later. There were other names too – Blob, Blubber, Hippo – the usual stuff, but only one other school nickname had lasted any length of time. That had been because of an altercation with one of the nuns at the dinner table one day, a particularly malicious nun who had seen Trish helping herself to seconds.